


A Time to Heal

by Tru



Series: Every Purpose Under Heaven [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Allusion to Suicide Attempt, Fallen Castiel, Gen, Major Character Injury, Post Season 8, eventual destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tru/pseuds/Tru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you just need some space to breathe.  Post Season 8, shortly following the season finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel stands on the doorstep of the bunker. He glances at the gun that Dean holds, and then meets Dean’s eyes with an expression of exhausted defeat. Dean feels something like relief blossom in his chest before it is choked away by the remnants of fear.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he snarls, setting aside the gun in favor of knotting his hands in the front of Castiel’s trench coat. The consolation of feeling Castiel’s warmth beneath his grip keeps him from registering that the coat is stained by mud and water, much as it had been during those bitter days in Purgatory.

“I...” Cas says, faint and wide-eyed as Dean hauls him forward and twists him to one side, pushing him up against the door frame as he stumbles.

“It’s been two weeks, you dick,” Dean says, mouth set firm and knuckles pressing hard into Castiel’s chest.

“Dean, I...” Cas gasps, dark spots dancing in his vision as his cracked ribs protest Dean’s rough handling. He would hunch down around the pain, but he is pinned upright by both Dean’s hands and Dean’s furious eyes.

“I thought that bastard had killed you. I thought Sam was _dying_. Hell, he still could be,” Dean says, and Cas can do nothing to ease the anguish that draws lines around Dean’s eyes and mouth, turns his face to stress-fractured stone. “I needed you, you son of a bitch.”

“Dean,” Cas says again, low and desperate through his teeth the same way he’s said it every night before falling asleep for a few fitful hours. It’s the closest he’s been able to come to prayer. “I failed.”

“You think I’m fucking blind? Do you think I didn’t see those angels falling? The entire damned world saw it. It doesn’t change the fact that I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

Dean shakes him, hard enough to rattle his teeth, and Cas can feel the blood drain from his face. He can’t bite back a moan of pain, or fight off the swirl of dizzy nausea. Without Dean’s hands tangled in his coat and the sturdy frame at his back he doubts he would remain standing upright. Will alone can only do so much.

“Cas?” Dean’s hands ease, but tighten again as Cas begins to slump downward. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Your number...” Cas fumbles a hand into his pocket and pulls out a battered pre-paid cell phone. It falls from his shaking fingers and slides across the floor. “Your number didn’t work.”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, sad and somehow far away. The edges of Cas’s vision darken, and it feels as though the world spins around him. The slight support offered by Dean’s grip is no longer enough, and his knees begin to buckle.

“Charlie!” Dearn turns his head and yells inside, bending down to pull Castiel’s arm over his shoulder and haul him upright.

Cas moans again, breathing shallow inside the sharp pain of his ribs. He sees a glimpse of red hair and startled eyes just before everything goes black.

*

When Cas first wakes he is grateful that the pain in his ribs has faded from all-consuming to something more like a band of barbed wire that only bites when he inhales too deeply. After that he takes the time to observe his surroundings.

He finds himself in the same bed he’d been given the last time he was at the bunker, though then he’d had no reason to use it for its intended purpose. This time, he can think of nothing more than how much he’d like to never leave it. The idea of moving holds no appeal, but his dry mouth and demanding bladder will not let him remain prone.

Cas is not the only occupant of the room. A chair has been drawn close to the side of his bed and the woman he had glimpsed earlier is curled comfortably on the plush seat. She isn’t looking at Cas, instead her eyes rapidly scan the pages of a book held open in one hand. Occasionally, her eyebrows furrow, or her lips part, or she grins. He finds himself loathe to disturb her, but he doubts himself capable of rising on his own.

“Charlie?” he says, his voice rough and low.

She looks up at once, tucking a scrap of paper into her book before setting it aside. She tips her head to one side, and then plants an elbow on the arm of the chair, resting her chin on an upraised hand.

“So you’re Castiel,” she says with more warmth than he had expected. “How do you feel?”

“Is being human always like this?” he asks.

“Like what?” she responds, only a faint quirk of one eyebrow giving away her surprise at the question.

“Horrible,” he says, his mouth tightening a little when she laughs.

“I suppose that being a human can be pretty horrible,” she says, “But it has its moments.”

“I have yet to find one worth this,” Cas says, closing his eyes for a moment as he contemplates making an attempt to sit up.

“Give it some time,” Charlie says, her voice growing closer. “You’re still a noob at this human thing.”

“Noob?” Cas says, opening his eyes again to find her standing beside the bed.

“A newbie, yeah,” she says with a grin. “You’ve only been human a couple of weeks. You’ve got to learn to play the game.”

Before he can answer, she leans down and slides an arm beneath his shoulders. “C’mon. Sit up and you can have water and pain meds.”

Cas takes a deep breath and pushes upright. Charlie’s assistance eases the process, but he can still feel a faint layer of sweat on his forehead by the time she has finished fussing with the pile of pillows that buffer him from leaning against the headboard.

“You know, Dean, he didn’t...” she pours him a glass of water as she speaks, focused a little more intently on the task than he thinks it requires. “He’s scared.”

“I understand.” He takes a long drink of the water. It calms the itch in his throat, though there’s still a lingering tightness as he thinks about what Dean had said.

“Dean has often been scared for Sam. This time, there is nothing I can do to help,” he says as Charlie takes the glass back to fill it once more.

“Aspirin,” she says, as she hands over the glass and two small, white pills. It takes him two tries to swallow the pills and they’re bitter on his tongue.

“You can help more than you realize,” she says, putting the empty glass back on the stand beside the bed.

“Without my grace,” he stops here, takes a breath and swallows hard, “Without my grace, there is nothing I can do to help Sam. Even with it, I could not fix him.”

“It isn’t Sam that needs you,” Charlie says, and then she shrugs one shoulder, “but you’ll figure that out eventually. Right now, I’m going to bring you some soup.”

She’s out of the room while he’s still staring in confusion. He sits for a long moment, thinking over her words but not finding whatever meaning she intends for him. Once he has given up on pondering her purpose, he realizes that the demands of his bladder can no longer be ignored. Gritting his teeth, he tosses back the blankets that cover him and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Standing is painful, but not nearly as much as he had expected it to be. He still hunches over a bit, and that’s when he notices that his clothes have been changed. He’s wearing a pair of thin, plaid pants and a ragged old t-shirt. He lifts one side of the shirt and observes the bandages wrapped tight around his chest. He inhales, and the answering pain is sharp but no longer enough to overwhelm him.

“What are you doing?” Dean says, standing just inside the door that Charlie had left open. “You should be in bed.”

Cas startles, fabric sliding out of his grip as he twists to face Dean. The quick movement causes another spike of pain and he tenses, taking shallow breaths. Dean is at his side immediately, though his hand hovers a useless few inches above Castiel’s shoulder.

“I need to use the restroom,” Cas says after a moment. He watches warily as Dean lowers his arm and curls his fingers into a loose fist at his side.

“Right,” Dean says. “Just thought I should check in on you. Uh, I got you another phone. In case you need it. Contacts are up to date now.”

“Thank you,” Cas says.

There’s a heavy pause. Dean is still standing close, and Cas has the sudden urge to lower his head to rest on Dean’s shoulder. He doesn’t let himself act on it. He’s growing used to denying the impulses that have sprung up since the theft of his grace. Except this one; this need to be here with Dean, to be home.

Cas opens his mouth, not sure what words would come tumbling out given half a chance. Apologies or explanations, it doesn’t matter which because whatever words form on his tongue are lost before they reach his lips as Dean backs up and turns his face away.

“I need to check on Sam,” he says, rubbing at the shoulder that had once been marked by Castiel’s touch.

“Of course,” Cas says, though his words are wasted on the door that closes behind Dean’s quick retreat.

*

Dean drops down on the edge of his bed, twisting his head from one side to the other in an effort to loosen the tense knot that aches at the base of his skull. Giving up the attempt as hopeless he flops backward onto the memory foam that has hardly had the chance to form any memories of him in the recent nights. Between caring for Sam, trying to research the trials and how to reverse the damage they’ve done, and worrying about Cas, the little time Dean has had to sleep has been spent in chairs more often than not. He throws an arm over his eyes and contemplates the benefits of a nap.

The knock on his door makes him sigh. Swift and somehow imperious, it has to be Charlie. Sam’s knock would be heavier, and he expects that Cas wouldn’t think to knock at all. He considers ignoring it, but as he has the thought she pushes the door open just a little.

“I’m coming in whether you like it or not,” she says. “If you’re naked, cover your shame so I don’t have to see it.”

“Gimme a break,” Dean groans, muffled by the arm over his face. “I’m not naked.”

“Good,” Charlie says, and he peers out from under the crook of his elbow to see her standing at the edge of his bed, her arms crossed. “You look like hell.”

“Not really,” Dean says, the levity he hopes for falling a bit flat. “I looked a lot worse in hell.”

Her mouth twitches downward and her gaze flicks off to one side for a moment. He knows she’s remembering those damned books, and for a second he wishes Chuck were still around so Dean could wring his stupid neck.

He rolls onto his side and swings a leg over, shoving his shin into the backs of her knees. When she stumbles, he snags her wrist in one hand and yanks her down onto the bed next to him. Her indignant squawk makes him smile.

“There,” he says, rolling onto his back again and closing his eyes. “Now I don’t feel lazy with you staring down at me.”

She pokes him in the side hard enough to make him grunt, but then he hears her shifting around to get comfortable.

“You’re all a mess,” she says with an irritated sigh. “It’s like the Island of Misfit Toys in here.”

“Whatever you say, Dolly,” Dean says. He catches her hand before she manages to poke him again.

“I need you to talk to Cas,” she says in a rush, and he lets go of her hand and sucks in a deep breath.

“What for?”

“Don’t you think you should find out what actually happened?”

“He ignored everything I told him, just like he always does,” Dean says, and then his breath rushes out of him as she smacks a hand down on his stomach. She doesn’t hit him hard, just enough to shock him into opening his eyes and glaring at her.

“Dean Winchester, I am seriously disappointed in you.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it,” he says, as he rubs the slight soreness where her hit landed. “I’m real good at disappointing people.”

“Oh, Dean,” she sighs, “Sometimes you’re an idiot, you know.”

He remains stiff as she scoots over to his side, resting her head on his shoulder. She wriggles around until he has no choice but to wrap his arm around her shoulders, just to keep her still.

“Dean, you saved the entire world,” she says, reaching up to cover his mouth lightly when he would reply. “I don’t want to hear you tell me that it wouldn’t have been broken in the first place if not for you. You were up against something that no one should be expected to withstand. The deck was stacked against you, Winchester, and you played your hand the best you could.”

He wants to argue. He wants to push her away and tell her that she’s the idiot here. At the same time, he wants nothing more in the entire world than to be able to believe her words down to his bones. It doesn’t matter how true her statements may be, he can’t forgive himself for hell. His arm tightens around her shoulders and hers stretches across his chest and squeezes tight. They remain there long enough that he begins to think he may fall asleep.

“So,” she says at last, “Cas?”

Dean groans, and she leans back and props herself up on an elbow to stare down at him.

“He’s covered in bruises and has at least two cracked ribs. You got a closer look than I did, and I’m still pretty sure I saw a clear boot print stomped into his back. I don’t think any of that happened in heaven.”

“Your point?”

“There’s something seriously wrong with your angel,” she says, sitting up. “He’s not going to talk to me about it. He barely knows me.”

“He’s not an angel anymore,” Dean says, “And men don’t talk out their problems.”

“You do realize that for all his time observing humanity, he doesn’t really know how to be a human, right?” She twists around, sliding her legs off the edge of the bed. “Are you really just going to let him fall apart when you might be able to save him?”

She has him, and they both know it. She leaves the room without another word, and Dean drops his arm across his face once more.

“Fuck,” he says, before heaving himself off the bed.

*

For all that Dean hopes he might be, Cas isn’t asleep when Dean knocks on the door of his room. He enters the room to find Cas propped upright against a pile of pillows, a book open between his hands. Cas only glances up briefly when Dean comes in, returning to his book as Dean settles into the chair Charlie had left pulled close to the bed. After a moment Cas slides a folded sheet of paper into the book and turns his head to look at Dean.

“Cas,” Dean says, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling rather than meet that too earnest stare, “I need to know what happened.”

“Metatron used me,” Cas says, his voice without the least bit of inflection. “Naomi was telling the truth.”

Dean looks down only to find that now Cas is the one looking away. Castiel’s fingers clench and release in the blanket spread over his lap.

“I gathered that much,” Dean says. “What did he do? How did you end up like this?”

“He _stole_ my grace, Dean,” Cas says in a voice that’s low and vicious and anguished. Dean isn’t sure what’s going to tear first; the blanket that Cas mangles between his fingers or Cas himself.

“What about these?” Dean asks, leaning forward to brush a fingertip against one of the bruises visible beneath the sleeve of the t-shirt Cas wears. Cas flinches away from his touch, and Dean’s hands curl into fists as he pulls back.

“Did Metatron...?”

Cas interrupts with a snort of laughter, though there’s nothing that could be called amusement in the sound. He lifts a hand and presses it against the bandages that Dean knows are wound around his ribs. Dean was the one to bind him up; grateful that Cas had fainted and didn’t hear his low-voiced curses or see Dean’s shaking hands.

“He dropped me in a forest,” Cas says, quiet enough that Dean nearly holds his breath to keep from missing a word. “Once he’d taken my grace, he sent me down to earth to live a life. He said that when it was over--once I’d found a wife, made babies, grown old--that he wanted me to come to heaven and tell him my story.”

Cas stops, frozen in perfect stillness for one long moment. Dean bites back the urge to curse Metatron’s name; fights off the desire to grab Cas and shake him just to make him present here in this exact moment rather than being lost in this painful past. Then Cas looks at him, and Dean would do anything to take Cas back to a time where an expression of such desolation would never cross his face. Cas reaches up, rests a hand over the bruise that Dean had touched and drops his gaze to somewhere near his knees.

“I didn’t want to let him have his story,” Cas says, flat and simple and not at all like his words have just knocked the breath from Dean’s lungs and the thoughts from Dean’s head.

“You...” Dean falters, the words catching--tangled and sticky--in his throat before they find a way to tumble over the surface of his tongue. “You wanted to get yourself killed. You were going to die to spite Metatron.”

“There were some men...” Cas says, though the words come to an abrupt halt when he looks up, and it’s only then that Dean realizes he is standing.

Cas leans back into the pillows, face drained of color as Dean looms over him. Dean plants his fists on the edge of the bed, only speaking when he’s level with Cas and their eyes are locked.

“You were going to give up and leave me never knowing what happened to you. Why the fuck,” he pauses as his voice breaks, snarls and closes his eyes before continuing in a lower voice, “Why the fuck would you just give up?”

“Dean, I...” Cas is staring, wide-eyed and trembling, looking as though he’s about to be sick when Dean opens his eyes.

“I know I haven’t always been there for you, Cas,” Dean says, not backing away though he can’t meet Castiel’s eyes for more than a second at a time. “But, come on, I dropped everything for you this time. I left Sam to try and finish the trials and went with you because you needed me. I told you in Purgatory and in that crypt that I need you, and you left me both times. I can’t...”

Dean stops, his throat so tight with grief and anger that he can’t go on. He shakes his head and straightens up, flexing his fingers to release the tension from how tight he’d clenched them.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says, his voice thick and sorrowful.

“Yeah,” Dean says, taking a deep breath and dipping his head in a nod. “Yeah, Cas, this time I think you really are.”

He leaves Cas sitting there, ignoring the shine of tears in Castiel’s eyes and the sting in his own. He had bought a bottle of whiskey on his last supply run, and he thinks tonight may be just the time to drink it. He’s going to sleep, and he doesn’t want to dream.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re up,” Dean says. His shuffling footsteps slide to a halt as he grabs hold of the kitchen door frame with one hand and squints at Sam in the bright light of the kitchen.

“So I am, Captain Obvious,” Sam says. He pours another cup of coffee and slides it across the island in Dean’s general direction. The eyebrow he raises is stark against his still too pale face. “You look worse than I do.”

If the way he feels is any indication, Dean can believe that. He’s getting too old for alcohol binges, and the whiskey hadn’t made sleep come any easier. Though he can’t remember details, he’s pretty sure he hadn’t escaped having nightmares either. There’s a sick sort of dread lingering in the pit of his stomach as he shuffles across the kitchen. He hopes the hot coffee will drown it out.

“I took Cas some coffee,” Sam says, and by the twist of his lips Dean can tell that he noticed the way Dean’s fingers tightened on the handle of the coffee cup. “It was good to see him, even all banged up.”

“If you’ve got something you want to say, spit it out,” Dean says. The half cup of coffee he’s drunk so far has done nothing to settle the tight knot in his stomach.

“On second thought,” Dean says as Sam opens his mouth, “forget it. Unless it’s a way to undo what these trials have done to you, or to kill Metatron and put the angels back in heaven, I don’t want to hear about it. Cas will heal, even without you sobbing all over him.”

“This isn’t just about the physical damage, Dean.”

“Nah, it’s about his precious hurt feelings,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve got news for you, Sammy, not one of us came out of this without some damage and talking about it isn’t going to fix things.”

“Because you’re such an expert in talking about feelings,” Sam says, flat, putting his own coffee mug down with a dull thunk. “You’ve gotten better, Dean, but one of these days you’ve got to let go of the last of that emotional baggage Dad left you with.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean puts his coffee cup down as well, pressing the knuckles of his closed fists down on the counter and leaning across the island toward Sam. “You mean like his insistence that I protect you?”

“Actually, yeah,” Sam says, his mouth twitching when Dean leans back in surprise. “He forced you to think that protecting me was the most important thing in your life, and then turned around and told you that he wanted you to kill me if you had to. He made you think you have to give up on anything that’s important to you, and I’m sick of watching you do it.”

“You’re full of shit, Sam. I’m done with this conversation.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, Dean,” Sam says, though his mouth is still tight and his eyes slightly narrowed.

“Awkward,” Charlie sing-songs, and the boys both turn their heads to see her standing in the kitchen doorway wrapped in a robe. “I should stop listening at doors. Though I may be able to help you out with some info on getting the angels back into heaven. 

“Once I’ve had my caffeine fix, that is.”

“Multi-task,” Dean says, shoving the sugar bowl in her direction as she rounds the end of the island and heads for the coffee pot. “Speak and caffeinate at the same time.”

“Rein in that Tauntaun, Winchester. I’m still in the early stages of this. Though,” she says, directing a bright smile at Sam and fluttering her lashes as she pours herself coffee, “if my favorite research assistant is up for a bit of work, things should go faster.”

“Assistant? Please. I know the archives here better than you do,” Sam says, taking the empty carafe from Charlie and resetting the coffee pot.

“But I’ve got the sweet technology,” Charlie responds, pulling her tablet out of the pocket of her robe and brandishing it at Sam.

“We should be partners, at least,” Sam says. “I know more about the trials than you do.”

“You sure about that?” Charlie spoons sugar into her coffee, stirs, and then taps the spoon vigorously on the edge of the mug.

“Uh, yeah. I _lived_ them, remember?”

“I’ve read all your notes _and_ I’ve spent the two weeks you’ve been laid up doing more research.”

Dean leaves them to their squabbling. The knot in his stomach has subsided a bit, knowing that with the both of them working on this they’ve got good odds of working it out. He’s pointedly not thinking of what Sam had said, and any thought of Cas makes his stomach clench again, so that’s out as well. He heads for the shower, determined to clear his head.

*

The shower doesn’t do much to help, aside from easing a bit of ache from his muscles and reducing his headache to a dull throb. Though some of that could be attributed to the coffee. He rambles around outside the bunker for a bit, sticking mostly to the shade beneath the trees.

There’s little to do out here but think and Dean tires quickly of trying to avoid the thoughts that have nipped at his heels since his argument with Sam. He retreats back into the bunker and soon stands outside the door to Castiel’s room. His hand hovers over the knob and then he flexes it into a loose fist. After a deep inhale, he knocks.

He feels like a fucking pansy as he waits for Cas to answer; as if he’s a teenager picking up his first date. The sudden idea of him presenting himself to Cas’s father as a prospective suitor is hilarious enough to take an edge off his frayed nerves. Hell, if he were to come face-to-face with God, he’s pretty sure he’d coldcock the son of a bitch and damn the consequences.

After a moment of waiting, Dean begins to think that Cas may be asleep. He raps on the door again, a bit louder this time, and then leans in close to listen for any sounds of motion on the other side. He hears nothing. Uneasy, with memories of their conversation the night before nagging at him, he reaches out and turns the knob before pushing the door open just enough to peer inside. If Cas is asleep, there’s no need to wake him.

The bed is empty, and neatly made. The book Cas has been reading when Dean saw him last is closed and resting on the edge of the mattress. If it weren’t for the sudden tightening in his chest, Dean may have been amused to note that it’s the first book in the Harry Potter series, obviously Charlie’s suggestion. Instead, Dean turns his attention to the rest of the room, but aside from the book it looks the same as it had when Cas hadn’t been a resident of the bunker. There are no hints as to where Cas could be.

There’s a flutter of panic in the back of his mind and Cas’s statement about wanting to deprive Metatron of his story echoes in his thoughts.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathes into the silent room. He yanks the door shut with a sharp snap before turning and striding toward the main rooms of the bunker.

“Where’s Cas?” Dean asks when he finds Charlie and Sam sitting at a table and pouring over several stacks of books, papers scattered between them.

“Haven’t seen him,” Sam says without looking up, one shoulder rising and falling in half a shrug. “He’s probably just wandering around. He did say he liked the place last time he was here.”

“When did you see him last?” Dean says, tone tight.

“I don’t know, Dean. This morning, I guess. What’s…” Sam trails off, looking up at Dean. He pushes his chair back and stands, his posture turning guarded as he flicks a glance around the room. “What’s going on?”

“Cas isn’t in his room,” Dean says, and Sam looks at him with furrowed brows and a frowning mouth. “Look, Sammy, this is serious. He shouldn’t be wandering around on his own.”

He sees the second it trips in Sam’s thoughts, the memory that Crowley is still locked up in their basement dungeon. While it’s not Dean’s primary concern, the fact that it gets Sam worried is enough for him.

“We’ll find him, Dean,” Charlie says. She pushes away from the table, digging her phone out from under a folder. “We’ll call as soon as we do.”

“Right,” Dean says, dipping his fingers into his pocket to make sure he’s got his phone. “Let me know as soon as you find him.”

“Of course,” Sam says, but Dean is already leaving the room. He has no attention to spare for anything but finding Cas.

*

Dean feels like he’s been searching for hours when he finally locates Cas. Every empty room he checks makes the faint dread he feels grow stronger, and when he opens the storage room door to find Cas slumped in a chair, illuminated by the faint light of a weak lamp, Dean’s fingers spasm tightly on the doorknob and he breathes out a sigh. Cas lifts his head, squinting toward the doorway.

“Dean,” he says, tipping his head to one side. His features are lost in shadows, his voice flat.

“You scared the hell outta me, Cas,” Dean says. His iron grip on the doorknob releases by increments, and he pulls out his phone to tap out an ‘all clear’ text to send to Charlie and Sam. “We were all looking for you.”

Once the door is shut, Dean moves across the room toward Cas. He can see now that Cas’s expression is one of confusion. He sighs and sits down in the chair opposite Cas.

“After what you told me… Finding your room empty…” Dean pauses, the lump that’s formed in his throat taking him by surprise. He doesn’t want to voice his thoughts out loud, but Cas still looks perplexed. “Well, I thought… I’d thought you’d decided to…”

“Oh,” Cas interrupts the halting, slow spoken words, looking down at where his hands rest on his knees. “That.”

“Yeah, _that_ ,” Dean spits, his own hands clenching into fists on the arms of his chair. “Do you ever listen to a damned thing I say to you, Cas?”

Cas looks up, his eyes wide and hurt before they narrow down to slits. His voice is harsher than usual. “Obviously not, or we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we?”

“That’s not what I mean, you dick,” Dean says, leaning forward to meet Cas’s glare with one of his own. “How many times do I have to tell you that I need you before you get it?”

Cas’s mouth thins, and his hands clench on his thighs. “You’re the one that doesn’t get it, Dean. I no longer have any powers. I wasn’t just cast out, like the others. Metatron _took my grace_.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean says with a small shake of his head, but that’s as far as he gets.

“Doesn’t _matter_ ,” Cas echoes incredulously. “I’m useless, Dean. I can’t smite demons, I can’t fly, I can’t heal you anymore… There’s no reason for you and Sam to need me.”

“Fuck,” Dean says, muffled by the hands he scrubs over his face. “I’m a dick. 

“I don’t need Superman, Cas, I need you. If you ever tell Sam that I said any of this shit, I’ll kill you, but you need to listen up.

“Yeah, your abilities were useful, but you’re worth just as much to us without them. That’s how friendship works, man. You’re not useless without them. We may have to adapt, train you up in how to fight as a human, but only if you want to. You’re useful just by being here, okay?”

“Dean, I…” Cas swallows hard, lowering his eyes again and bringing his hands together in his lap. His fingers flex and twist a few times before he goes on. “I ruined everything. I should have listened to you.”

“Yeah, you should have,” Dean agrees, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out, bumping one foot briefly against Cas’s calf. “I’m not going to say that I’m not angry, Cas. You fucked up. This is where you have to make a choice. Are you going to just let it all go, or are you going to try and do something to fix it?”

Cas is silent for a long moment. Dean watches as he takes several deep breaths. He looks up at Dean, and something goes tight in Dean’s chest at the sheer misery he reads on Castiel’s face.

“I don’t deserve another chance.”

“Maybe not,” Dean says with a casual shrug. “Maybe this ought to be your final strike and you should be out of the game, but that’s not how things really work. You’re family, Cas. We’ll keep giving you chances to fix your mistakes, so long as you’re willing to take them and try.”

“I was _trying_ to fix my mistake,” Cas says, and Dean can see a faint sheen of tears in his eyes. “I wanted to _fix_ heaven, and instead I destroyed everything.”

“Road to hell, good intentions, all that,” Dean says. “I know you thought you were doing the right thing. Part of your problem is that you keep trying to do everything yourself. That’s not how family works, Cas. You’ve got to trust me to help you.

“We’re going to fix this. You don’t have to do it all yourself.”

The tears in Cas’s eyes spill over, running hot down his cheeks. He can’t keep meeting Dean’s eyes, he turns his head away. The jumble of emotions he feels make no sense; so very different from the limited range he’s long been used to. He remembers when he apologized to Dean after taking in the souls from Purgatory, and he thinks he knows now why his apology made little difference then. If this is what it is to feel truly sorry, then he was nowhere near capable of such emotion before.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” he says, turning a desperate gaze on Dean. “I can never atone for everything I’ve done. Even if I were to fix things, I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“Cas,” Dean says. He stops there, looking away and Cas can see him swallow. The silence is almost heavy, though Cas knows that silence cannot possibly have a weight; it still seems as though it presses down on him, keeping him from making any attempt to break it.

“In hell,” Dean begins, his voice low, “I did things that there is no forgiveness for. I made it possible for the seals to be broken, for the apocalypse to happen. Do you think that’s something I can atone for? Something I can be forgiven?”

“There’s no need for you to atone,” Cas says, surprised from his own melancholy to discover that Dean still agonizes over this. “You did as you had to do. Even if there were atonement required, you stopped the apocalypse.”

“Yeah, we did,” Dean says, still speaking to the wall rather than looking directly at Cas. “But how many people died? How many hunters were killed by the Witnesses? How many people did Lilith slaughter trying to break the seals? How many of my friends were hurt or killed? That’s all on me. I broke in hell, and I started it all.”

“You did not kill those people, Dean,” Cas leans forward and grabs Dean’s wrists, squeezing tight and not speaking again until Dean looks him in the eye. “Lilith killed those people. Not you.”

“Metatron cast those angels from heaven, Cas. Not you,” Dean says, and when Cas tries to pull back and retreat into himself, Dean turns his arms over and grips Castiel’s wrists. “I know you feel guilty, and maybe some of it is on you, but it’s just like what happened to me in hell. The best--the only--thing you can do is accept that it happened, move on, and try to make things better.

“It will _never_ just go away. You’ll never wake up one morning and not immediately feel that weight on your shoulders. Best you can do is try and make it feel just a little bit lighter.”

“How?” Cas says, his fingers tightening around Dean’s wrists. “How do you keep it from crushing you?”

“Sometimes you don’t,” Dean says, sadness twisting his mouth. “Sometimes it’s going to knock you flat on your ass and you’ll think that you’ll never get up again. That’s when you need to let someone else pick you up.”

Dean stands, tugging on Cas’s arms until Cas is standing as well. For a quiet moment, they just stand there. The painful tension that has made it hard for Cas to breathe seems to loosen a little. He takes several deep breaths as the sting of tears retreats from his eyes.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says at last, removing his fingers from Dean’s arms one by one. Dean gives a final squeeze and then pulls his hands back.

“That’s what family is for,” Dean says, then tips his head toward the door. “C’mon. I know you didn’t have anything but coffee this morning, so I’ll make you lunch.”

“Sam did say that you make an excellent burger,” Cas says, smiling a little as he holds the door open for Dean.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Dean replies, a half smile pulling at his mouth. “I’ll spoil you for all other burgers.”

“Guess I’ll just have to stick around then, won’t I?” Cas says.

“Yeah," Dean says, "I think you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The current plan is to have the beginning of the next story in this series up within the week at most. Series title and story titles come from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, though they won't necessarily follow the order of the verses and not all of them will be used. My apologies for mistakes. All errors are my own and polite correction is always appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have the misfortune of not recognizing the reference to The Island of Misfit Toys, you can read about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudolph_the_Red-Nosed_Reindeer_(TV_special)


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